The.......

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Grant
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The.......

Postby Grant » Mon Jan 18, 2010 1:36 am

"Captain, we've got six incoming fighters off the port bow to the south," the young radio operator of the Atlanta Princess listened to the turrent gunner's chatter as the two escorting F9 Kingfisher's broke formation.

"Call battle stations. Launch our fighters," Captain Dan Kirk rubbed his forehead worredly. Even though the Atlanta Princess carried six of the Fairchild fighters as escort, and had Twin .50's on it's engines, she wasn't a combat zeppelin, she was a fast cargo zeppelin. Hopefully if the Princess could pick up full speed and the fighters hurt the incoming fighters, it would be enough to get them to back off while the zeppelin high-tailed it out of there. She was capable of going almost 90MPH....officially that is.

"Helmsman, increase engine RPM to 3,500. Bring our speed up to eighty two knots. Call battlestations, and form damage control teams from non-essential crew, unlock the armory and begin issuing weapons."

"Yes sir," the helmsman began pushing the various levers and switches arrayed around his control, pressing the engines harder and adjusting the course ever so slightly.

"Sir, what about the passengers?" the radioman asked. He was young, barely twenty, and the first combat he'd witnessed was having an effect on his calm.

Kirk sighed, "Get on intercom, tell them to remain in their rooms until this blows over," of all the times for passengers, the Princess was carrying it's first for almost two months, and the one time, it had to be in combat.

"SIR Nose flak gunners report six fighters inbound from the north," the radio operator nearly shouted the sentance.

"Calm. Ease up Chalmers," Kirk appeared calm on the outside, but was sweating bullets on the inside. A confirmed twelve fighters against his six. They were definately outgunned. Even the turrets weren't that much of a evener against those odds. Contemplating surrender, he shook his head. It was worth the risk considering there was only four passengers. Their cargo consisted of a valuable load of Dixie tobacco to Hollywood. Part of the shipment was due for Tuscon as well, albeit a small load.

"Recall the fighters. If they can, have them form a defence around the zeppelin, keep the major attacks off us, but leave it to our turrets if they can," the captain ordered, "And increase engine RPM to 3,600."

"Yes sir," the melmsman replied. His increase in power was met almost immediately by the appearance of the zeppelin's chief engineer on the bridge.

"Bloo'y 'ell Cap'in. Ye' ca'ot poosh da engine's anee mo're or yah'r goh'na bloo sum'in." Scott, their chief engineer exploded in one of his worse outbursts of Scottish-barely English language.

The zeppelin's commander shook his head, "Not now Scot. I know it's tough on 'em, but we don't have a choice. The longer we can go, we might get help." Kirk doubted it, as many Arixo militias were quite small, and reserved their aircraft for attacks on their own nation's registered zeppelins and small pirate raiding parties. However they were close to Tuscon, which was home to one of the larger Arixo militias, just maybe....

"ZEPPELIN DEAD AHEAD," hollared the helmsman. The entire bridge jerked their heads forward and looked at the zeppelin. Long, a dark green cloth on it, so dark as to appear black, with the emblem of a skeleton brandishing a sword on it's nose.

"Damn," Kirk uttered, "The Reefers." A particularly bloodthirsty band from Pacifica, with tendancies that varied weekly, however usually leaned towards annihilating a zeppelin's crew then torching.

"Zeppelin Atlanta Princess. Stand down yer fighters 'n crew 'n prepare to be boarded. Failure will result in death," came the brusque and growling voice over the radio.

"Sir?" asked the radioman, waiting to send a response.

"Forget it," the captain responded, "Issue arms to all crew, even damage control, gunnery crews and mechanics."

"Sir?" he asked again.

"They're ruthless. They aren't going to let us go anyway," was the response.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

With a loud explosion the another engine blew off of it's mounting, leaving the New York Princess with only two engines, and virtually dead in the water.

"Get 'er in close," Jack "Wrecker" Logan commanded "Thugee" Jahani, the pilot of the Scourge, the light battle zeppelin of the Wrecker's pirate band, "We gotta get close enough to fire the boarding lines."

"Yeas boss," the man replied, he carefully watched the opposing zeppelin as he regulated the engines on the zeppelins, swinging the Scourge in alongside the crippled cargo zeppelin.

Wrecker Logan turned to a pirate standing beside him, "Harvey, get to engine nacelles two. Have the gunner soften up the entry hatches behind the fourth and fifth engine mountings," the man nodded and then turned out of the bridge.

"Keep 'er steady Jahan, we're going in," Logan turned to the assembled pirates, "Okay, we're up."

The group walked out onto the deck of the gondola. The harpoon cannons fired and hooks carrying light cables soon stretched from the Scourge's gondola to the now destroyed engine nacelles of the Dixie zeppelin. Each nacelles had an entryway into the zeppelin, and with three lines now connecting the zeppelins, it was doubtful enough resistance could be made from the defenders. However as an insurance, one of the pirate engine gunners opened up with the twin .60's mounted on them. Short bursts of .60 caliber Armor Piercing rounds ripped through the doorways, shattering the locks and ripping through any defenders that were just inside waiting for boarders.

"ONTO HER BOYS," Jack Logan roared. With experianced moves, the pirates hooked their harnesses onto the lines and began working their way across to their target. Occasionally a shot would ring from an opening in the zeppelin, however the watchfull turret gunners of the Scourge quickly peppered the shooter with heavy machine gun rounds, forcing the defenders to await boarding.

A dozen boarders made their way across. Opening the hatches was met with the roar of shotguns, pistols and submachine guns. However the pirates experiance with weapons and boarding was far superior to the armed crewmen.

Jack Logan stopped just short of the corridor's corner and peeked around the edge. Almost immediately he yanked back out of sight as a dozen rounds impacted the light paneling around him, some stopped while a few penetrated but didn't hit him.

"Three behin' a barricade in the hall, one each on doors alongside," he whispered to the team behind him. They nodded and readied their weapons. They were close to the bridge, probably the final hurrah from the defenders.

Logan holstered his revolver and withdrew the converted 1911 from it's holster. Flipping off the safety he stuck his hand around the corner without aiming. The now-full automatic recoilled and emptied the 18 round magazine into the hallway. Under his covering fire two pirates with Thompsons barreled around the corner. Not bothering to aim they mashed down on the triggers, firing on the run, the hail of bullets caught one crewman, while another was already down from Logan's fire. The defenders were shaken by the ferocious attack and just managed to drop one pirate short of the baricade. The other got behind them and at point blank range finished off the three unwounded defenders

Jack and the remaining pair of pirates quickly stepped over the barricade and the downed pirate. Only the finale pirate spared a glance at him, and quickly determined him dead from the bullet wound in his chest.

Reaching the door, Logan stopped. He tapped experimentally but knew the answer. Solid steel. The newer zeppelins were being built to repel boarders. Unless they came prepared that is.


Kirk and the rest of the bridge crew remained silent, sitting behind the improvised barricades constructed from crates brought in, or several storage columns in the middle of the room. Weapons drawn, they waited. The shooting outside had stopped, but no one entered.

'Hmm," Kirk thought,' The door wasn't locked. wonder if they...." BAWHOOOM. The explosion rocked the bridge, peppering the crew with shrapnel from the door, while the concussion stunned everyone inside. That was one reason that few zeppelins had steel doors.

Through the smoke a long burst of machine gun fire rattled through the door. .45 rounds sprayed the room, shattering control handles and blowing out the glass on the bridge windows.

"Com'on out with yer hands up," Logan bellow through the doorway. A response to his ultimatum was a barrage of gunfire, fired haphazardly through the smoke.

"Okay, that's the way you wanna play," Jack grinned savagely and yanked a grenade from his pocket. He pulled the pin and threw it into the bridge. Instead of the usual explosion, it began expelling smoke, and even with the shattered windows, filled the room. The pirate leader pulled his .44 revolver and shifted the full automatic .45 to his left hand.

Just rising from his crouch another of his band came around the corner behind him, "Boss. We got the Professor, he's heading across the zipline to our Zep, spotters also report four aircraft coming in from the north, 'bout 50 miles out."

"Damn," Jack muttered, 'Oh well. Guess I'll hafta just leave a present instead.' He withdrew a second grenade, pulled the pin and tossed it into the bridge, "Okay boys, let's get the hell outta here."






Two cowboys lounged alongside their autogyro in the desert just outside the Navajo Nation's boundary lines. The autogyro's radio was playing a bluegrass tune out of Tuscon and the fire had just started the coffee boiling. All of a sudden the radio squawked and garbled out into static.

"What the..." the one pondered as he looked into the cockpit and fiddled with the dial. All of a sudden a voice came across the radio.

"Anyone who can listen, please. We're under pirate attack, I believe we may be captured. If you can assist, we're at...." the radio fuzzed out, "If you can't, go to the Longhorn Bar in Tuscon...Contact..." the radio scrabbled again, "and let .." it fizzed out, "know what's happened. I don't recognize the planes, they look dark green, they've got some kind of skeleton insignia on them. I....." the radio didn't fitz out but the man's voice was cut off.

A few seconds later the voice came on the radio again, "Uh..hhh..huh. If anyone recieves this, please come to Colorado, Durango airfield. I need help, I'll pay what you ask, just come."




Several hundred miles east, a freak radio transmission comes across a pilot escorting a passenger zeppelin. The same message.

"What the?" the pilot thought.




At the Longhorn Bar in Tuscon.

One of the band players looked up from his intrument at the bar. Lot of people in here tonight.





Somewhere in Free Colorado.

"You're sure that's what it said?" Grant Olson snapped at the man.

"Yeah boss. Started writing the moment it came through," John "John Paul" Jones, the captain of the Montana Raider's zeppelin Helena chewed on a cigar, "That's what she wrote."

Grant looked at the message, "I don't care who it is. But if the Wreckers got them we're involved. Get whatever crew that's onboard and get them out into Sky Haven, drag everyone back here, we're loading up and getting out of here in six hours."

"Aye, aye boss," the man replied.



Okay boys, thar' she is. No real rules except:
No taking actions for opposing players. For example typing conversation is allowed,etc. But YOU CANNOT just randomly kill off opposing people (NPC's maybe...all depends on how the Game Manager (me) decides tough they are.

This is going to be very loose. I have a rough storyline in my head, but abandoned a rigid structure for more free-styling. How a person reacts to their surroundings will matter.

For example. At the moment, with the above, a player can choose to either:
A. Go to Durango Airfield in Colorado.
B. Go to the Longhorn Bar in Tuscon Arixo.

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Grant
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Re: The.......

Postby Grant » Wed Jan 20, 2010 12:09 am

Ummm....okay.

That's the cue guys.

Option A: Go to Durango Airfield.

Option B: Go to the Longhorn Bar.

Jerba's at the Longhorn already playing in the band.

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captnmartin
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Re: The.......

Postby captnmartin » Wed Jan 20, 2010 11:19 am

'Well that's an odd message,' thought Vick Deschamps, 'But it sounds like they're willing to pay, and they're desperate, might be worth looking into.'

Vick flipped from 121.5 to the Zep Liner's frequency, then toggled his radio, "White Star 14, this is Knockout."
"Knockout, White Star 14, go ahead" came the slightly crackled reply.
"White Star 14, I need you to relay a message for me to Company using your HF transmitter, advise ready to copy"
"Go ahead Knockout"
Vick hesitated for a moment, this job wasn't bad, but it just lacked... Excitement. It payed the bills, but it was boring, and these milk runs started to wear on you after a while. Making up his mind, he thumbed the transmitter "Deschamps is resigning position as Air Guard on arrival to Tinker. Will collect pay after landing, please have effects picked up from Barracks and delivered to Terminal. End Message"
There was a slight pause as the radio officer jotted down the message.
"Message Received Knockout, and for the record, White Star 14's Captain has asked me to convey his personal thanks."
"Check that White Star, tell Jim that Knockout will buy the Bridge crew a round before departure."
Vic smiled when the his radio lit up with the sound of cheers, apparently the radio operator had been running on speaker, not headset. Deschamps flipped through his maps, and mentally made a note to buy new Free Colorado charts. It'd been a while since he'd ventured to the Free State...

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Grant
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Re: The.......

Postby Grant » Tue Jan 26, 2010 4:55 am

"We're all loaded up," Cindy Daniels walked onto the Helena's bridge.

Grant glanced at his wing(wo)man, "Even Tuffy?" referring to their resident drunk pilot.

"Took us awhile to find him but we finally found him. He was passed out under Murphy's," she replied.

"Hmumm," he muttered in reply. looking down over the map, Grant motioned of "John Paul" Jones, the Helena's captain.

"Durango is right on the border of Free Colorado. Figure it'll take us," he glanced at his watch, "12 hours if we take it easy going through the mountains."

The bearded man nodded slowly, "Anything in particular we should watch for?"

Grant shook his head, "Nothing in particular, but watchfull of everything," he turned to "Greaserag" Anderson, the chief engineer, "Get all the planes full loadouts, rockets and guns. Then get all the extra greasemonkeys on the engine turrets. I want a full shift of gunners on the turrets, and six pilots in the hanger the whole time, and two fighters outside."

The man put a greasy hand to his cap brim, "Yessir," before turning out of the bridge.

With that Grant turned and walked from the bridge, followed by his wingman.

"Awfully business like today aren't we?" she asked, a slight smile betraying her serious voice.

He remained serious, "If it's the Wreckers I am. I ain't gonna go out of my way to fight them, but if I can get paid to fight them....I can't pass that up."



Okay.....no one else? 24 hours, then I'm posting an into for the next phase.

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Thom
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Re: The.......

Postby Thom » Tue Jan 26, 2010 5:30 am

(Sorry I am just confused and not really sure what is expected of me in this style of RP)
Flying the Crimson Skies

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captnmartin
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Re: The.......

Postby captnmartin » Tue Jan 26, 2010 3:20 pm

Thom wroteColon(Sorry I am just confused and not really sure what is expected of me in this style of RP)


My understanding is that you make up a story to describe your character's actions based on the GM's story points. It's very freeform, which I like. The basic rules for the story is don't mary sue, and don't write excessively for other characters (some writing is necessary, but the general idea is that your character is your control, others react to your actions)

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Grant
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Re: The.......

Postby Grant » Wed Jan 27, 2010 5:02 am

Yep :D

Sorry for making it sound confusing. I have that habit.

Basically: Now you would make an introduction post. Are you going to Tuscon (Probably closer to you?) and tell someone (unidentified) at the Longhorn bar about the zeppelin's hi-jaking, or do you go to Durango airfield with the possibility of....payoff.

And Jerba. Well...He's in the Longhorn...I don't know what he can really do...I should make a bar post...

Sorry. I'll have a bar-style post so Jerba can post tomorrow. I've been swamped.

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Re: The.......

Postby Jerba » Wed Jan 27, 2010 8:25 pm

Brownie walks off the stage following his set. A few of the gents sitting at the tables give him approving nods. He walks to the bar for a drink, root beer sure hits the spot. Looking around the bar makes him more than a little depressed. Being here for so many months is getting old and Brownie is starting to get anxious for the next gig. Hopefully that gig involves a little more flying than the current one. At the far edge of the bar against the wooden wall a face catches Brownie's eye. Is it familiar? Or is it just creeping Brownie out? Something about that rustler just isn't right. As he puts the bottle down and returns to his guitar he can't keep his eye off that rough looking gentleman with the stetson.

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Grant
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Re: The.......

Postby Grant » Thu Jan 28, 2010 3:37 am

The Longhorn bar was bustling with activity that day. Alot of people within the bar, it was as busy as ever.

*Scene change: Upper level of Longhorn. Office of bar owner, Judge Bill O'reilly.*

"Anyone who can listen, please. We're under pirate attack, I believe we may be captured. If you can assist, we're at...." the radio fuzzed out, "If you can't, go to the Longhorn Bar in Tuscon...Contact..." the radio scrabbled again, "and let .." it fizzed out, "know what's happened. I don't recognize the planes, they look dark green, they've got some kind of skeleton insignia on them. I....." the radio didn't fitz out but the man's voice was cut off.

A few seconds later the voice came on the radio again, "Uh..hhh..huh. If anyone recieves this, please come to Colorado, Durango airfield. I need help, I'll pay what you ask, just come."


"Hmmm," the judge muttered. He looked at the radio again. He usually didn't turn it on. Now he was glad he did.

'Makes you wonder,' he thought. 'First message sounded panicked. The last....calmer? forced? Duress?'.

He first pulled back his coat and ensured the .45 Colt New Service was securely tucked into it's holster. The Judge reached down and opened the lowest drawer of his desk, revealing a row of handguns. He pulled two from the drawer, slipped them in a pocket then closed it.

Standing from the desk, O'reilly quickly strode to the door and walked out on the balcony. Leaning against the railing, he examined the room below.

The place was busy. It had been the past week. He carefully examined everyone.

The bartender was busy serving patrons, he was good backup, kept a double barreled 12 gauge under the counter.

Bunny, the resident drunk was slowly working the room, stopping at the poker game in the back, making small talk and hoping someone would take pity on a poor old man "with a tetch of room'ah'tizm".

The poker table was busy, five players.

The resident card shark, who made a habit of cleaning uneducated flyboys and ignorant strangers. Hopefully nothing major would happen. He had a tendancy to get twitchy with his fancy new Colt .40 automatics.

Three of the other four were regulars. Local flyboys who spent part of their money on trying to beat the card shark.

The fourth. He was a new addition. Not obviously a pilot but certainly the possibility. Tall, muscular, he wore a flight jacket and looked inconspicuous enough. Except he was beating the card shark, something few people did. And it was obviously irritating the professional gambler.

His gaze travelled across the room.

There was two servers working the tables, Dizzy, a aptly named dizzy blonde who used her...assets to garner more tips than her helpful service.

The other was Madelaine. She worked part time as a dancer on the bar's stage with the band. A tough, all business brunette, she was working more effeciantly than Dizzy.

Two of the burlesque workers were also working the floor, although without much ability.

"Long Wind" Jones, the travelling salesman was seated at a table with a possible client. Weather beaten by the sun and rain, an old prospecter was opposite him, examining the fancy new Browning 9mm handgun, then withdrawing his heavy, weather beaten Colt Single Action on the table, obviously expounding how reliable his was and why would he get a newfangled automatic. Oddly enough the man also had his Winchester 73 lever action leaned on his chair. Looking for a fight maybe.

Judge O'reilly eased himself off the railing and quickly trotted down the steps. His massive, 6'4" frame and broad build spread a shadow across the guard standing at it's foot.

"Everything looking okay tonight Tom?" he asked.

"For now boss. Why?" the skinny guard glaned nervously around the bar, adjusting his gunbelt holding the S&W .44's.

'No need to excite him. Just keep him alert,' the Judge thought to himself. Aloud, "Might be nothing. My gut says something might happen. Might not, but you keep an' eye open." The man nodded and O'reilly moved off.

He intercepted Madelaine, "Here," he took her tray from her and passed it to one of the burleseque dancers. She took it somewhat poutily, then smiled as she remembered he was her boss.

He motioned to Madelaine and she followed him to a corner, "What's up?" she asked. She was not only a good dancer, and server, she was also his floor spy. She had a solid head on her shoulders, smart, good shot, and as tough as half the men in here. She was his right hand

"Here," he withdrew a Colt .380 automatic from his pocket along with a pair of magazines. She took them and the small handgun disappeared into the folds of her dress, "Somethin's going on. I don't know what. But keep a close eye out there."

She nodded and then went back out into the bar. The Judge walked back to the stairway, and returned to the upper floor. Glancing back along the first floor, he examined the crowd a final time. The band was starting up again, including the root-beer drinking cowboy. He seemed attentive to the crowd. Following his gaze, he noticed a rather rough looking cowboy at the far end of the bar. Rough, unkempt. But looking like a normal cowboy. Except for the pair of low-slung gunbelts. Even at this range they were a stark contrast to the man. The room's low light actually shined off the polished and well oiled automatics, each hammer back and probably loaded chambers.

The Judge forced himself away from the balcony and back into his office. Yep, stuff was gonna happen sometime. Time to get buzzsaw out.


Okay: Round instructions:
#1. Thom can choose to go to Longhorn or Durango.
#2. Jerba can interact with any of the above named characters (Heck, he can even talk with himself if he wants...although that might be boring.
#3. Tomorrow (Sorry, late tonight) I'll post the Montana Raiders arrival at Durango, and a prelude to that setting.


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